


My Pretty Rose Tree

by roomeight



Category: Blur (Band)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Britpop, Bullying, Gramon, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24832000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roomeight/pseuds/roomeight
Summary: On the night of his thirtieth birthday, Damon hooks up with a mysterious stranger at a bar who reminds him of his past.In 1985, a young Damon angsts over his unrequited love for his best friend, Graham. Desperate, he casts a forbidden black magick love spell from his mother's grimoire, hoping to make Graham fall in love him. However, little does he know know that the spell's cost is worse than the requited love it grants.A modern and childhood AU.
Relationships: Damon Albarn/Graham Coxon
Comments: 72
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

Damon finds his pound of flesh the old-fashioned way, analog. And tonight’s hunting ground is at the pub—a grimy little rundown number down the stairs in Soho that you’d miss if you didn’t spit at it. A true Londoner’s bar. Posters of Chelsea United slapped to the ceiling with a dodgy little record player in the back that pumps out cheesy Pulp and Cure songs while chicks with purple hair and older men wearing pinstriped mod suits permeate the dance-floor. A place for goths and mods and queers, and all of nineties London’s manic depressives looking for a cheap drink and some company.

Tonight the small talk is made bearable through boozy interaction with a pretty woman with lovely tits who wants to buy him a drink until she notices his attention is unequivocally directed at the bloke eyeballing him from just a few seats away. The one with an impish smile on his lips.

He’s not alone, but his friend, a tall lanky art school type, doesn’t hold his liquor very well. The DJ’s blasting Bananarama through the overhead speakers and at one point their eyes lock before he turns away. If Damon had a “type”, it might be him. Brunette, with big round puppy eyes. A sarcastic fucker from the sound of their conversation, and a tad shy. But he doesn’t let that fool him—not in bed, he’s not. Damon wagers he’s the sort of lad he’d be a little gentle with before breaking him into the mattress.

Damon buys him a drink, and suddenly it’s as if they’re speaking a silent language. There’s a brief exchange of looks, a sly smile and then a nod. Damon slips into the seat next to him, broadening his shoulders, lifting his chin to assume that extra inch the other boy has on him. Both know who’s in charge here.

By the time they leave, Damon’s not sober enough to account for the lad’s name. He says goodbye to his friend and both head back to Damon’s flat—in a black cab, because Damon explains that he’s not a cheap enough date to make them take the tube. Graham, was it? He’s a musician, at least Damon thinks that’s what he said. Or was it a schoolteacher? He admits he’s never been much for small talk or sober account keeping when on the prowl. Usually people assume from the way Damon looks that he’s an arrogant wanker, and they wouldn’t be far off.

Still, this one’s charming. Graham hiccups in the back seat of the taxi and the corners of his eyes crinkle up into a big, white-toothed grin and Damon can’t help but think he’s met him somewhere before. He asks Graham where he went to school. Goldsmith’s college. No, comprehensive, Damon clarifies, and he answers: Stanway. Almost the same year as him. Who’d have thought. "We must have been passing ships," Graham says, two seconds before he hiccups whiskey again and they both burst out laughing.

“Do you normally pick up blokes like this?” Graham teases, peeling his jacket off slower than Damon would like.

“Well, occasionally I get lucky.” Damon smiles. “Tea?”

Graham nods, following Damon into the kitchen, shoulders slumped like a cat checking out its new surroundings. Finally, after some awkward silence, he clears his throat. “I’m surprised we never ran into one another at Stanway. Were you out then?” Graham asks in a low voice.

Damon shakes his head. “No.”

“Right. Well, that makes sense.”

“How so?”

“Well, you would have been pummeled,” he explains, then adds, “not just you.”

“You were in the music courses?”

“Yeah. I had Mr. Hildreth.”

“No shit.”

“What?”

“Me too.”

Damon furrows his brow. “Odd,” he replies, handing him the cup of tea. “What year did you say you graduated again? 1986?”

“1987.”

“Hmm.” There’s another brief, but awkward silence between them as Damon takes a sip of his tea and accidentally scalds the top layer of skin off his upper lip.

“What did you say you do again?”

“I didn’t,” Damon corrects, setting his cup down with a firm click.

Graham looks taken aback. “Oh.”

“It’s alright. I’m an actor.”

“Oh… are you?”

“Are you telling me you don’t recognize me?” Damon plays, narrowing his eyes as Graham’s face turns a cherry shade of red.

“Honestly?”

“I’m joking,” Damon teases, poking him in the stomach. Graham flinches at the sudden contact. “I’m alright, I don’t bite. I promise.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, staring down into his teacup. “I..I get a bit awkward sometimes when people touch me.”

“It’s alright, don’t apologize. It’s my fault.” He lifts his gaze and meets the other man’s, warily.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re… downright gorgeous?” He laughs, breaking eye contact again. “It’s a little ridiculous. I can barely look at you. I hate it.”

“You think I’m gorgeous?” Damon grins.

“God, that sounded pathetic, didn’t it?”

“A little,” Damon muses, still beaming. “But it’s alright.”

“It really is irritating,” he continues. “I keep hypothesizing that you think you’ve picked up some other handsome bloke tonight and at any moment now the veritable beast that’s me is going to pop out and terrify you.”

“You’re right, you are a beast,” Damon jokes, eliminating the rest of the space between them. He leans in close enough so that their faces are just a few inches apart. Graham’s body seems to sink into the wall behind him.

“I can see it now, now that I’m closer.” Damon lifts his hand up to cup Graham’s chin out of habit, then stops. “May I?”

Graham looks down and lets out a nervous laugh. He nods. His mouth is warm, and Damon can feel the whiskey coursing unbridled through his veins as he presses up into the boy. He moans against their mouths, then licks his tongue between Graham’s lips.

“Mm, you are lovely,” Damon muses, pulling back a bit.

“Am I?”

“I should know. I was staring at you all night.”

Damon leans in again, kissing him. His hands drop to the other man’s waist, squeezing his sides as he ruts his hips against Graham’s. Fuck, Damon thinks, noticing that Graham’s already hard and likely has been for a while now. Graham presses into the crease of Damon’s thigh, gasping, and moves to kiss the nape of his neck. Lips brushing against stubble, Damon lifts himself to Graham’s ear, tugging slightly with his teeth. Graham shivers as an electric shock runs down his spine. Damon rolls his hips forward and Graham gasps again, feeling him. Peering down, Graham grins at the very clear outline of Damon’s cock straining against his trousers.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “There’s the beast.”

Damon chuckles, slipping his hand down between their legs. He plays cat and mouse with the silver tab of Graham’s fly, before cupping his hand over his cock. Graham mewls, closing his eyes and rutting up into Damon’s hand.

“Mmm, Damon?” Graham says, then pauses. “Ehm..it _is_ Damon, right?”

Damon laughs. “Yeah?”

“I don’t mean to ruin the moment but eh… just so you know, I’m not looking for anything…”

“Sexual?”

“No…”

“Serious?”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s what I was hoping to say.”

“Me either.”

“Oh, good.” He nods, then grins. “Cause don’t get me wrong, you’re gorgeous, and you’ve got a beautiful cock too—which is frankly unfair considering how pretty you are—but—“

“I get it,” Damon interrupts, kissing him again on the lips. “We’re on the same page. No strings attached here.”

“Good.”

Damon grins, reaching his hand around to squeeze Graham’s arse. Graham blushes, biting down on his lower lip in a way that drives Damon mad and he pulls him from the wall and leads them toward the bedroom. By the time Graham’s knees hit the back of the bed, Damon’s peeled off Graham’s shirt and discarded it. He preoccupies himself with momentary worship at his bodily altar, placing warm, wet kisses across Graham’s pale collarbone. He traces his tongue across the hollow dip in-between, then draws a languid line up Graham’s neck all the way to his bottom lip. Graham shivers.

“Fuck.”

Damon smirks and removes the rest of his clothing, unbuttoning his trousers and shucking his shirt off to the side. Graham’s quiet eyes drop, drinking all of him in. He sucks in a breath.

“Are you going to…”

“Either way.”

“What do you mean, ‘either way’?”

“I can be on top… or bottom. If you’re intimidated by it.”

“It.“ Graham laughs. “You mean your cock? No, um, I was going to ask if you have a rubber.”

“Of course,” Damon replies, reaching into his bedside drawer and fishing out a packet. He tears it open with his teeth. “I am a gentleman.”

“You’re a lot of things.” Graham chuckles, still staring between Damon’s legs. “Are you sure you went to Stanway?”

“Yep.”

“God. How did I miss you?”

Damon grins, then pulls them into a deep kiss. Graham sighs, his hand dropping between their legs. He groans at the skin to skin contact as Graham gently strokes him. Damon ruts up into his hand, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of Graham’s neck.

“So which one is it?”

“What?”

“Top or bottom?”

“Is it bad that all I want to do is suck you right now?” Graham mumbles.

Damon holds back a smile. “No.”

Graham lowers slowly to his knees. Damon brushes his hand across his hot cheek, thumb admiring the man’s full, pink lips. A second later, Graham’s mouth envelops him in wet heat, his velvet tongue drawing around the rosy head. Graham keeps a steady gaze with him the entire time, hands running up either side of his thighs. He relaxes, allowing Damon to slide into the very back of his throat. Damon groans, enjoying the visual of Graham’s hollowed cheeks, the way his mouth stretches around him in a big O, taking all of him in, in stride. He’s skilled at what he does, oscillating between his tongue lapping and dancing around the tip of his cock and long strokes into the back of his throat. It’s not long before Graham’s touching himself too, and Damon has to stop him for fear of coming too quickly.

He lifts Graham up from his feet and smashes their lips together, tasting the shared flavor of them together on his tongue before gently shoving Graham backward onto the bed. He lands, bouncing and grinning on top of the clean sheets.

“I appreciate a man who makes his bed every day,” Graham muses. Damon climbs over him, hair tickling Graham’s flushed cheeks.

“I appreciate a man who knows how to suck a cock that well,” Damon teases. He presses their lips together, deepening the kiss, and Graham groans, palming himself between his legs. His eyes drop between Damon’s legs again.

“I think I know what I want.”

**

The first time Damon had a cock in his mouth he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt he was gay. It was, indeed, as if some switch was turned on—an epiphany with the all the poetry and elegance of a half-arsed hand job and blowie behind the portacabin at his comprehensive school, with a boy he’d barely talked to but had been giving him eyes for weeks.

The feeling had always been there, lurking, it just needed a little push and... presto. Gay. He loved girls too, don’t get him wrong. But all those feelings he’d had for his best friend, the ones he’d filed away under too complicated and scary to think about—yes, those—suddenly they made perfect sense.

He wished his first time would have been with Graham instead. But it wasn’t. And that was fine, no point in crying over spilt milk, but it made him sad. And it made him more sad when Graham started dating a girl because then he had to pretend that he was happy for him when he wasn’t. Had to pretend that to be overjoyed to hear about his best friend’s hour-long make out and heavy petting session with the girl from second period who—to be frank—was not nearly pretty enough for him and probably not nearly as talented with her tongue as Damon was.

But he couldn’t talk about these things. It was bad enough that he was bullied on a near-daily basis by every closeted homophobic chav in Colchester. Closeted because they were the same boys who wanted to meet behind the portacabin after school to get their dick sucked, come in his mouth, zip up their trousers, and carve the word “poof” on his cheek in permanent marker before throwing him into the trash can. The humiliating act became so regular that Graham would often look to the same spot on Damon’s cheek, sigh, and remark that they’d already been through two bottles of rubbing alcohol that month.

“Why don’t you learn not to bother them? Or just get a girlfriend so they stop thinking you’re gay?” Graham would say, frowning, as he rubbed Damon’s cheek with a soaked washcloth until the skin was red and burning. What Damon wanted to say—what scared him to say—was that it was the truth.

The first time Damon had Graham’s cock in his mouth, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Graham was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to the degree that when he finally came, it was stilted and weird and left two separate bitter tastes in Damon’s mouth when Graham left his house saying only a handful of words to him after. It wasn’t like how he imagined it would be. It was the opposite. And Graham didn’t talk to him for two days after. When they passed in the hall, Graham would avert his eyes to act as though he hadn’t seen him, and it hurt. It hurt like hell, and Damon wished every day for almost a week he’d never suggested the idea to Graham in the first place.

After a week of biding up the courage, he slipped a nervously scribbled note in-between the bars of Graham’s locker and hoped to God that Graham would see it and start talking to him again. He’d written it in maths, a class he was already well on his way to failing anyway, and it was a pure stream of consciousness.

_Graham,_

_I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have ever suggested it. It’s my fault. I didn’t mean to make things weird. Please talk to me. Everything can go back to how it was before. I promise._

Damon didn’t hear back for a weekend and two painstaking days, and for a while convinced himself that Graham had either not seen the note or thrown it away. Because he couldn’t understand how someone—his best friend—could be so cruel when he’d laid his heart out so bare for him.

On the third day, he opened his locker and a folded white note slipped out and fell onto the ground at his feet. He snatched it up as if his life depended on it, and hands trembling read it in his next class while his English teacher droned on about Shakespeare.

Damon’s name was scribbled in messy letters at the top of the page and his heart leapt into his throat as soon as he read the first sentence.

_Dames,_

_I’m sorry for not responding sooner. I didn’t want to speak to you because I didn’t know what to say after what happened. You probably know by now that it made me feel weird… to do that… with you. I’ve never thought of you like that, and so it was weird for me to. I didn’t like how it made me feel. Not that you weren’t good, I just… I don’t know. I don’t think of you that way. You’re my friend. And I like girls. I thought you did too. Everything is very confusing now. I’m not sure how to feel. I feel weird being friends with you now. You’re my best friend, but I think what we did made things different… confusing. I just need some space for a bit. You understand? I’m sorry._

_\- Gra_

Damon’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. His eyes burned and flooded with tears. He read the last few sentences again and again, allowing the sting of it to hit his very core. He crumpled the note up and stuffed it into his pocket, then excused himself to the loo to hide the hot tears streaming down his face.

It’s fine, he thought after a few hours of mulling over Graham’s note. I have other friends. I don’t need to be friends with him. But that was a lie. Damon didn’t have other friends. Most people hated him. He had Graham. That was it. And now Graham wanted nothing to do with him.

The denial ran through most of the next week, Damon breaking down at certain periods and hiding in the boy’s loo every time Graham passed him in the hallway and he didn’t make eye contact. Damon drafted about thirty letters and trashed all of them. Nothing he tried to say sounded right, and nothing he could say would fix things. A deep depression hung over him like a dark cloud, and when his mum asked him where Graham was, it mortified her when he burst into tears. He couldn’t tell his mum either. Not that he thought she wouldn’t understand, but he was too scared to be honest. Scared to expose himself, his real self to anyone around him lest they react the same way Graham had, with confusion and mild disgust. As if Damon’s eyes on him had become an assault.

Damon wished nothing more than to take back what happened, to go back to how things were before. Sometimes he imagined he was dreaming and at any moment he would wake up and things would be normal again. Almost a month passed and neither of them spoke or hung out. Damon blended into the background and tried to focus on other things. His sister. Theatre class. Books. Anything to get his mind off the despair he was feeling. Then one day he heard a couple of Graham’s friends whispering loudly two lockers down.

“Did you hear about Graham?”

“What?”

“He kissed some boy.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He’s gay.”

“What? No way.”

“No, mate. It’s true. He kissed Dave.”

“Dave? Dave’s not a poof.”

“Yeah. It didn’t go over well. Dave pushed him off him. He was super freaked out.”

“Holy shit. I mean, I always kinda wondered cause he hung out with that Albarn kid, but… really, he’s gay?”

“Yeah. Gay.”

“Wait, but wasn’t he dating a girl just a few weeks ago?”

One boy shrugs. “Maybe it was a cover, I don’t know. I bet you he was gay with that Albarn kid though. That kid is giant flaming poof.”

The other boy laughs. The boy opposite him catches Damon looking in their direction. Both boys shoot him a salty look and snicker. Damon slams his locker door shut, a deep hurt stabbing him in the heart again. He trudges to his next class with his book bag weighing like an enormous mountain on his shoulders.

Graham is in his next period, and as soon as he walks into the classroom his eyes fall on his friend. Graham looks worse for wear—shoulders sunk, eyes vacant and looking forward into distant space as his friend speaks to him. It’s as if everything his friend is saying is falling on deaf ears. He doesn’t look well at all, and it worries Damon, to where his eyes intermittently flick upward to stare at the back of Graham’s head throughout the entire class.

Did he really kiss someone else? Damon thinks as he digs his fingernails into his thigh, so hard he almost draws blood. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that Graham would say what he did and then betray him like that. Anger wells up inside him, threatening to spill over as class ends and gathers up his books and papers quickly enough that he can leave without having to run into him. He’s halfway to the door when he feels someone’s hand on the back of his shoulder.

“Des,” Graham’s voice mumbles and squeaks at him from behind his back. Damon takes a deep breath. It’s the first time they’ve made eye contact in over a month, and the first thing that Damon notices is that the whites of Graham’s eyes are bloodshot red. He looks as though he’s been crying all day. Seeing Graham like this makes him feel guilty. Almost as if hating his best friend this entire time has contributed to how he looks now, lost and forlorn. Damon bites down on his tongue, flooded with animosity and empathy simultaneously.

“Can we talk?” Graham croaks, voice nearly cracking, and something stirs inside Damon.

“Sure. Yeah. When?”

“Now?”

“I have another class to go to,” Damon says, but as soon as he sees Graham’s mouth twitch and the tears threatening to spill over, he shakes his head.

“I can skip it. Let’s go,” he said, leading both of them out of the classroom and to the courtyard behind the school.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely feedback on the first chapter. <3 If you like this let me know and I'll continue. :)
> 
> **Also please note the character "Dave" in this is not Blur Dave. Sorry for the confusion!! I will probably change the name.

Graham. Damon says his name over and over in his head. Chews it in his mouth, lets it sink into his stomach. He _knows_ like he should remember him, but he doesn’t. His face didn’t ring a bell. But the name? Yes. It clouds his mind with drunken judgement as they fuck. And there’s a sensuous, electric energy to their love-making. Something he hasn’t experienced in quite some time.

He kisses the soft slope of his lover’s back, hands wrapped around the other man’s sex, holding him as he grows warm and hard in his hand. True to his word, he’s gentle with him at early on. Kisses first. Then harboring him in his arms, pressing their cocks together like breathless schoolboys. He takes his time. Tells himself this one is special.

Graham cries out when he first enters him, a low rich moan, and rolls his hips back deliciously, fucking into Damon’s hips. Damon spreads his cheeks, watching as he slips his cock inside, hot and wet, relishing the sound the other man makes when he’s full. Obsessed with the way the boy sounds; the stilted gasps, the bellied moans that ascend to an intoxicating crescendo. Finally, the release. Graham’s body arcing up into him, muscles squeezing as he comes deep inside him. An entire month of Damon being coiled up within himself, released.

This fuck was unique. Damon was unable to put his finger on why, but that emotion, that rare essence, had him suspicious. When they met, he knew that he recognized Graham from somewhere, but how and where was like an itch he wasn’t able to scratch, and it bothered him the entire evening. He shook the questioning from his mind, hands brushing down Graham’s back, relieved to have a a pleasant body lying next to him for the first regrettable birthday of his life. Something human. Someone warm. One brilliant shag, to mark the occasion of turning thirty and still being single and alone.

“You’re married to your job.” That’s what his last partner had said, and he took that truth in stride and ran with it. 

“Thirty?” Graham repeated, earlier that evening. Post-coital, he nuzzled his face into the crook of Damon’s shoulder, his hair tickling Damon’s nose.

“Thirty.”

“Well, happy birthday, then.”

Damon laughed underneath his breath. “Yeah.”

A hint of a smile played on Graham’s lips. “At least you got laid.”

He was beautiful, this boy. More than most. And Damon wanted him, prayed to keep him in his arms for longer than one night. Sleepy pools of black stared back at him from the opposite side of the bed. Soft, kind lips pressed to his brow, his collarbone, his cock. A warm tongue and a dry wit. Graham’s curiosity seemed genuine to him; he looked right through Damon’s barriers and into his soul. Something about how Graham spoke, how he smelled, the way he made love gripped him, reached into his ribcage and held his heart hostage. But that string of familiarity, that itch, kept clawing at his brain. And when they both came, bodies collapsing together in exhausted heat, his only thought was that he didn’t want Graham to go. Although neither of them were looking for a relationship and had outlined expectations up front. At the end of the evening, Damon couldn’t stand the though of letting him slip through his hands and disappear.

*

The morning sun, unbearably warm, filters through the slits in his blinds, and Damon wrestles the duvet off him. He blinks his eyes open, the parched desert of a hangover scratching at his throat and mouth. The indent on the other side of the mattress is empty. He lifts himself out of bed, stretching and yawning, and a small folded note on top of the dresser catches his eye.

_Damon —_

_Sorry I had to leave early. I had to go to work. I enjoyed getting to know you last night. It was lovely, thanks again. I hope you had a pleasant birthday. Cheers. x_

_\- Gra_

Damon stares at the piece of writing in his hands. There’s no phone number. Nothing. As promised, it was a one-night stand with no strings attached. No surprise, but part of him still wished that Graham had left his number. He’ll probably show up again at the bar, Damon tells himself.

Suddenly, out of nowhere there’s a stabbing pain in his abdomen, a twisted wrench. He grimaces, clawing his way to the bathroom, and stands in front of the bathroom sink. He clutches his belly, trying to swallow the nausea. But it’s no use. He wretches into the sink, his stomach emptying itself with a mostly dry, but disgusting splatter. It smells like tequila. And sour. And horribleness.His stomach flip flops again, threatening, and he braces the edge of the sink with both hands. Reaching down to turn on the faucet and wash the mess down, he notices something. Something red and angry and covered in blood. He panics, thinking that he must have done something to his stomach. Swallowed glass. Hell, maybe he was hemorrhaging. Suffering a second wave of nausea—and now fear—Damon picks up the bloody object with his hands. He rolls it over in his palm until the thin layer of blood rubs off. It’s hard. And green. And about an inch in length, but pliable, with pointed edges. Almost like thorns on a rose stem. He presses his fingertip to the sharp point as if to test it and yelps as it pricks him, drawing a bright red droplet of blood from his thumb.

_What the fuck._

He curses, dropping it into the sink, and lifts his hand to suck on his injured thumb. Jesus. Could it have been from a salad? He tries to think of what he'd eaten the night before. He hadn’t eaten. Maybe it was from the tequila? No way. He stares down at the foreign object, grimacing, and presses his hand against his rumbling belly. Weird. Had to be salad from the other day, he convinces himself. He swallows, tasting iron, and winces at his raw throat. Then he picks up the stem, drops it into the toilet and flushes.

He shakes his head, stomach still sick with unease, and turns on the faucet and washes the rest of blood down the drain.

**

Damon could never remember the age when the feelings began. It was 13. It was 14. No, he was 15, maybe when Graham’s body made his breath jackknife any time their bodies got close. It made his mouth water. It made him dizzy.

Graham was always the last boy in the locker room, always the last one to get dressed. No matter how slowly Damon took to shower, no matter how much longer he took he to put his clothes on, he was always dressed light years ahead of Graham.

Folding his clothes very, very slowly, he would watch Graham shower, soaping up between his legs, his hand making circles where Damon wanted to put his face. Enough staring to make him cross-eyed. Then Graham would put one foot up onto the shower stand, and Damon would—he would hold his breath. The sight of the boy he’d always known changing into a man enthralled him. The way he’d grown an inch over Damon, the way his shoulders broadened. The new but intriguing chest hair and sex trail that, although sparse, looked striking against his pale skin. The constellation of moles, just as always remembered them from their summers swimming in the river, on his right shoulder. His back, lashing down into shallow hips and a round arse. His sex—veiny, white. All unshakable. All which made him want to kneel down and take him into his mouth and perform holy fellatio on his best friend who had suddenly, inexplicably, in the space of a year become the sexual altar he wished to worship at.

Still, fear swelled up inside Damon. He knew that those same impulses would haunt him later. He knew he’d go to sleep with his hand wrapped around his aching cock, dreaming about Graham pulling him aside one of those late nights, when the locker room was empty and dark and they were alone.

Then one day, short of some kind of miracle, Damon sprained his ankle during football and was hobbled and carried into the boys’ locker room, which smelled like teenagers’ left-over sweat, pungent, and unclean. And Graham put his arm around Damon’s waist. And Damon put his arms around Graham’s shoulder and neck. And he could smell Graham’s skin, feel the tautness of his neck. Graham had a smattering of black stubble peppering the bottom of his chin where the older boy had none. He was so fucking close to kissing him. Damon could smell him, and he smelt different from before: cologne and shampoo and shaving cream and clean boy smell.

Nothing else but that went into Damon’s head for the rest of the night, all week, all year. And Graham helped Damon all the way back to his parents.

**

Graham’s house is about a five-minute walk from the school, a stone’s throw behind the school’s football field. The path there is well-worn, and they'd skipped many a class by hopping over the short fence dividing the schoolyard from the suburban block. Graham climbs on top of a tall rock wedged into the foot of the six-foot fence, stretches his hand out, and helps hoist Damon, and then himself, up and over the chain-link fence. His heart pounds against his ribcage as they slip in through the sliding glass back door and climb the stairs to Graham’s bedroom. Graham hasn’t uttered a single word to him since they left the school, and Damon’s throat has shrunk to the size of straw from thinking about what to say to him.

Being inside Graham’s room is like being in a painting. His mother’s hand-stitched quilts with the colors of the seasons and flecks of dried paint spread across his bed. Tapes and records and sheets of music and dry rock-hard paint brushes littered the floor of his bedroom. Posters of The Jam and Dark Side of the Moon adorned the wall above his bed. A guitar. A saxophone. A record player. With speakers. In Graham’s room you would never know that his overbearing, homophobic father’s bedroom was just three feet away.

They’d get into bed together, and move around under the covers, their body heat remaking a womb. And while reading, Damon’s skinny, newly hairy legs and feet would touch Graham’s by accident and Graham would scrunch up his nose and poke him in the ribs, and Damon would giggle like a giddy little troll. Boy skin smell making him high.

“Gra,” Damon says, staring at the top of Graham’s head. “What’s going on?”

Damon sits on the edge of the bed, and Graham follows. The proximity between them makes his skin crawl; he feels the heat emanating from Graham’s body. He takes a deep breath, fidgets.

“I just needed to get away from there. It was too much,” Graham mumbles.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure how to tell you.”

“You can tell me.”

“Look, I’m sorry that I haven’t talked to you lately.”

Damon waits for a beat, hoping to get an explanation, but none comes. “And?”

“And what?”

“That’s it? You haven’t spoken to me in two weeks.”

Graham fidgets. “No… yes… I mean, I don’t know.”

“Gra, just tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

Damon locks eyes with him. “You kissed Dave.”

Graham blanches white. “What are you talking about?”

“You kissed Dave. You like him. People saw you kiss.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“At school. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Graham shakes his head. “No, it’s not like that…”

“What do you mean it’s not like that? Don’t lie to me, Gra. It already hurt that you didn’t talk to me for two weeks, but now this? You go behind my back and kiss some bloke that’s not even good looking—”

“Shut up,” Graham interrupts, his eyes ablaze. “Just shut up, would you? You have no idea what you’re talking about. Dave’s the one who kissed me. He started it. I didn’t do anything.”

“But everyone said that he punched you—“

“What?” Graham’s brows knit into angry crosshairs. “No. Dave didn’t punch me. He kissed me and then two other people walked in and saw us. And then he made up a fucking lie about it to make it look like it was my fault.”

"Why?"

“Why? Because everyone thinks we’re fucking poofs, Damon.”

“No, I meant why did he kiss you?”

In that moment, all the color seems to drain from Graham’s face. He wrings his hands together, shoulders sinking.

“Why?” Damon repeats, bracing himself for the answer. “I want to know. Does he fancy you?” Another beat. “Do you like him?”

Damon’s eyes burn. His brain compels him to get up, to run away, but his legs feel like lead.

“I thought you only liked girls. Isn’t that what you said? You said it make you feel weird. You said that you couldn’t be around me because it made you uncomfortable. But now you’re kissing another bloke and fine with it. So which is it?”

Graham’s mouth twitches.

“I-I… I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Damon spits, his blood beginning to boil over.

Graham turns away, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. He stares down at his feet, mouth twisting into shapes, trying to find the right words to say.

“Would you talk to me? Please?”

Graham shakes his head no. He’s shaking. “I…I told you. I don’t know.”

“Yeah? Well I do.”

Damon smashes his lips against Graham’s. The kiss is inelegant, sloppy, full of unmeasured hope. There’s wetness—tears—warmth, and the stubble on Graham’s chin irritates Damon’s skin. For a moment, he feels like Superman, invincible. He circles his arms around Graham’s shoulders, pulls him closer, inhales the smell of him. His hands drop to Graham’s waist, thumbs sinking into the soft flesh of his hips. The other boy inhales sharply as Damon pushes him back onto the bed. He hovers over him with his hands exploring, touching. His hips sink into the other boy’s hips and Damon can feel him—already hard—pressing into the crease of his thigh.

He gasps as Damon rolls his hips forward, their cocks pressed between their bellies, trapped underneath loose trousers. The smell, the intense warmth of their bodies pressed together—it’s intoxicating. And Damon wants more of it. As much as he can take. He buries his face into the crook of Graham’s neck, kisses the smattering of freckles on his collarbone. He loses his breath, thinking back to the images in the shower, thinking about slipping down between his legs and freeing Graham from his jeans to placate him with his tongue.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Damon breathes. He cups Graham in his palm, over his jeans. He’s hard. Not even halfway. Hard. And it sucks all the air of Damon’s lungs. Graham lifts his hips, rolling into his hand, groaning.

“Fuck,” Graham breathes, squirming underneath him. But he’s looking up at the ceiling, away from Damon.

“I’ll make you feel better this time, I promise.” He plants his lips to Graham’s chest, rubbing his hand between Graham’s legs. Relishing the tiny moans as Graham’s hips lift into his palm.

Damon removes his hand, moving underneath Graham’s t-shirt instead. He shivers at the temperature contrast, goosebumps rising to meet Damon’s fingertips, then—

“Stop,” Graham pleads, and only then does Damon notice the tears in his eyes. There’s a deep pang of guilt, then the push of Graham shoving him off and shaking his head no.

“Stop. Please.”

Damon’s lungs collapse inside his chest. His heart races like a wild animal trapped inside his ribcage. This was the moment. This would have been the moment Graham understood and felt the same and loved him too and kissed him and told him he was sorry for the last time but no no no now it’s fucked, it’s completely fucked.

Graham’s bottom lip quivers. Damon reaches out to comfort him.

“Don’t.”

Damon opens his mouth to barter, to beg, but all the words stay lodged in his throat. And when they do come out, it’s a jumble of inadequacies, of self-failures.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you like that without asking. That was stupid, I just—“

“Des.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I touched you. It’s just… I’ve just been thinking about everything the past two weeks, and I can’t… I can’t get you out of my head, Gra. I’m losing my mind. I can’t stop thinking about how much I fucked up, and I pushed you too far too fast and I just did it again, and it’s all my fault Gra. Fuck. I’m sorry, I mean it.“

When Damon glances up again, Graham’s mouth is tight, his lips stretched thin.

“Gra.. say something. Please. I’m sorry.”

Graham shakes his head.

“Say it. Just say that you don’t like me back.”

Even though Damon’s been bracing himself for it, but the rejection still stings. His eyes flood with tears. Suddenly, a thought occurs to him and it makes him choke. It makes his entire soul feels like it’s leaving his body.

“Wait. Are you… are you with him? Are you and Dave together?”

Graham stares back at him with glassy eyes. He says nothing, but his expression says more than words could. After all this, after everything, his best friend had lied to him and betrayed him.

It feels like the walls are closing in on him. The circle of pain in his chest mushrooms into his lungs and his arms and his legs and he can’t take it anymore, can’t sit there and look at Graham staring back at him pitying him, feeling sorry for him. What an idiot what a bloody fucking idiot, he thinks, to believe for a second Graham would love him back.

He panics, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he gets up, opens the door, runs down the stairs and escapes through the back door, leaving Graham alone on the bed, leaving all the shame and pain and embarrassment behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy I know it's been a while since I've updated this. Maybe I blame 2020. Maybe I blame my personal life having a crisis. Either way we're here and there's an update. I do hope you enjoy it. There is some dark subject matter in this chapter, mainly homophobia and physical violence. I've included this because it's important to the plot line and is not meant to be gratuitous or romanticized or indicative of how mlm relationships should be seen. FWIW I am queer and it comes from a place of personal trauma for me, and so this is a way of kind of sorting through that I suppose. That said, I hope it comes across respectful. Oh, and p.s. I don't believe Graham's real father is like this...again, it's for fic purposes. No disrespect. x
> 
> **CW: Homophobia (internal/external), bullying, violence**

That morning, like all mornings, no one sits next to Damon on the bus. He presses his face against the window and fills his vision with the outside; gray, cloudy English suburbs. Rain condenses in droplets on the opposite side of the glass, cooling his cheek as every Smiths song about love on his Walkman mix tape strangles him like death. His mother’s words from that morning return to haunt him.

“You have to go to school, Des. You can’t mourn forever,” she’d said. Little did she know why he was being so stubborn about isolating. She didn’t understand why being in the same vicinity as both of _them—_ Graham and Dave _—_ was excruciating, like needles into his heart.

Now that Damon knew the truth, he couldn’t forget it, no matter how much he wished he could. Graham was Dave’s shadow. Whenever there was a break, he would glance up and Graham would be there, hovering at Dave’s locker, their elbows and shoulders touching. Around Dave Graham spoke with laughter, beamed with confidence. Damon’s heart would hiccup when they walked past him as though he were invisible.

Every day he tells himself that he despises them, floods his heart with enough hate for his blood to boil over, hoping that somehow the hate will eclipse the pain, but it doesn’t work. All he thinks about is Graham and Dave together, lips locked, limbs tangled. It gives him fits of panic; rings of jealousy like the pressure of two hands circled around his throat.

The icy wind rips past him as he stumbles off the school bus. He shifts his heavy backpack to the opposite shoulder, eyes glued to the ground as he trudges down the crowded hallway. It’s easier not to look, not to see them. He spends every lunch alone, in his drama class, and hides in the music portacabin after school to avoid both of them on the walk home.

Meanwhile, his parents worry more and more about him as the days wear on, each week passing through him like water between his fingers. One night his mum pulls him aside after dinner, asking him if he’s gutted over a girl, or if he and Graham are fighting. He lies. _Sort of._

Most evenings, after dinner, he locks himself in his bedroom and she brings him a cup of tea. His father gives him a terse, but well-meaning frown from behind his evening newspaper.

“Girls will drive you mad if you let them,” his father tuts, shaking his head. “You need to forget about girls right now and move on with your life. Think about college. You’re too young to be so serious about that.”

His mum chimes in with a cheerier tone. “Maybe you should take up your hobbies again, Des. Play piano. You’re so creative, I’m sure you could use an artistic outlet.”

Damon shrugs. His parents aren’t the only ones to notice a difference. Earlier that week, his drama teacher pulled him aside after class, concerned that Damon, normally on point, had forgotten all of his lines for a scene. His teacher’s lips pursed together, surrounded by his shaggy red beard peppered with flecks of gray.

“You don’t seem yourself, Damon,” he’d said. Damon lied to him too, blaming his forgetfulness on a terrible night of sleep. His favorite teacher stared back at him, brows pinched over the frown on his face. Damon knew that he wasn’t convincing anyone.

One evening his mother asks him to fetch some herbs from her garden. Next to the garden is his mother’s studio, a part of the house that always distracts him for its eccentricity. Brimming with charcoal sketches, oil paintings, and old leather-bound books, it’s by far the most fascinating part of the house. Burning sage smoke fills his nostrils as he enters the room. When they were younger, Damon would invite Graham over to wander through its labyrinth shelves filled with his parents’ oversized art tomes, tall stacks of National Geographic magazines, and dusty sixties vinyl records. An eleven-year-old Damon would triumphantly scale a shelf to pluck a record from its top ledge while Graham, trying to keep both Damon steady and the bookshelf from falling on him, squeezed Damon’s hand so tight he thought he might crush it.

A large leather-bound book set on the table in the middle of the room catches his eye and he smooths his hands over its brown, well-worn cover. There’s a satisfying crack of the spine as he opens it, and on the first page he recognizes his mother’s tidy signature, scribbled in neat handwriting below his grandmother’s, and above hers, his great grandmother’s and so on and so forth. It was his family’s grimoire spell book, passed down from mother to daughter for generation after generation. As a child he remembered his mother hovering over the book, humming as she pored over its thick, yellowed pages.

Despite his begging, his mother never let him see it, warning him that the spell book was off limits until he and his sister were old enough. Such mysteriousness intrigued him, and as a young boy he’d fantasized about the day that he’d be able to read it and practice magick just like his mother.

With a soft smile, his mum explained that her mother had passed the book down to her, and that one day, it would become he and his sister’s to protect and care for. Too young to understand, he came to think of mother’s mystical book like something out of a great fairy tale, both real and unreal, like the witches in the books he read and the cartoons he saw on the telly. It surprised him he’d forgotten about the book until now; tucked away and out of sight for years on a dusty bookshelf.

Each page written in faded black ink contained a spell concerned with something in particular; spells for sickness or ill health, spells for luck, spells for money or fortune. Other, more curious pages prescribed long lists of ingredients to make what looked like elixirs. Subsequent pages held instructions on how to deal with things like faeries, black magick, or how to protect one’s self from the evil eye.

He touched his fingers to the colorful bead necklace strung around his neck. Made by his mother for him after his first trip to Turkey, it matched a near-identical necklace that he’d made for Graham when he was in the hospital with anemia. He rolled one of the dark blue nazar beads between his fingers, remembering how his mother had told him it would protect him.

Skimming through the rest of the book’s contents, a page with a large warning written at the very top of the page struck his attention.

_Spells not to be used except in the most desperate of matters. Black magick to protect and counter against other malignant black magic._

His heart flutters, remembering with thrill how his mother had warned him about the dangers of playing with this type of magick. Black magic, she’d said, had a higher price than most magick—the price for it was often greater than what it rewarded. Her warning to him and his sister had been clear: never practice dark magick, except under the most necessary of situations, because it is far too dangerous for even for the most talented of practitioners.

Inscribed inside the page are circular, black sigils, inset with symbols and Hebrew. Next to each sigil is a description alongside an incantation. One is a summoning spell for a Goetic evocation, another for protecting oneself from possession. Others, simple spells for removing the Evil Eye or a hex to cause grave misfortune. One spell catches his eye—a love-binding incantantion that requires the conjuring of the demon Asmodeus.

Heart skipping, Damon reads the instructions to himself. His chest tightens as he brushes his fingertips over the faded ink, well-aware that his mother’s book has swept him up into a sort of feverish dream born from his childhood fantasies, that power over another person is at his fingertips if he can just believe that it is. His mind whirls with the thoughts of Graham, and Dave, a buzzing, euphoric energy resonating in his chest. Almost intoxicating.

He sucks in a deep breath and slams the book shut, electricity needling down his spine. His head pounds and he feels sick. Clutching his stomach, he heads back to the garden when a horrible vision overcomes him. A mental photo of Graham perched on the edge of his bed, face flushed, his right hand grazing the top of Dave’s knee as Dave smashes his lips against his. Graham’s body crumbles, his breath hot and tight like when Damon had first kissed him. His entire body trembles.

Stomach churning, Damon tries to claw the horrible vision away. He gasps for air as hot tears fall onto his bare white knees above the wet earth. Those familiar hands circling around his neck again, squeezing until he can’t breathe. After a minute he gathers himself, sucking in a deep breath and wiping his tears across the back of his sleeve. The rest of the night he lies in bed with anxious thoughts; he can’t stop thinking about his mother’s grimoire.

*

The next time Damon sees Graham he almost doesn’t recognize him. Shoulders slumped, his friend’s hoodie obscures most of his face as he squeezes his way through the crowded hallway. They make eye contact. Graham, moon-faced, stares back. He looks scared, skittish even, and then vanishes.

“Hey Graham, wait—“

“Oi, poof!” Two boys behind him snicker. A couple of lads from his year, complete wankers who used to beat him up in the loo.

“Fuck off,” Damon spits, his cheeks hot.

“We were wondering how your boyfriend’s doing today.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“He got what was coming to him. I mean, when he’s going around acting like a fucking poof, it shouldn’t surprise him when someone kicks his arse.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You’re kidding, right?” One of the boys snickers. “You know what happened.”

Damon scowls.

“Dave got suspended. He kicked the shit out of Graham. I guess Dave got tired of everyone calling them both sods, so he did something about it. Don’t blame him, really.”

Damon’s blood runs cold. “W-What?”

“Yeah, it happened in the locker room two days ago. Everyone knows about it. Except for you, apparently.”

“Is Graham alright?”

“Dunno,” the taller boy shrugs. “We thought you would know. He’s back at school today. All I heard was that he got his arse kicked pretty hard.”

Damon shoves his way past the boys and heads in the direction Graham disappeared. His heart hammers against his ribcage as he sprints down the hallway with his book bag slamming against his back. Finally, he spots Graham just outside the school campus and shouts at him to stop.

“Leave me alone,” Graham mumbles, still hiding behind his hoodie.

“Please, Gra. I want to talk to you.” Damon stretches his hand out to touch him, but Graham shirks away.

“Well I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Is it true?”

“What?”

“That Dave beat you up?”

“… Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Gra, please. I want to know.”

“Why do you even care?” Graham snaps.

“Jesus Christ! Your face!”Damon says, seeing the angry bruise purpled around Graham’s left eye. 

“Piss off. I don’t need you to make fun of me too.”

Damon frowns. “M’not making fun. I told you, I wanted to talk.”

“Strange. I thought we weren’t mates anymore.”

“I was worried about you. For chrissakes, I just found out what happened..”

“Really?” Graham shakes his head. “You _just_ found out what happened?”

Damon stares down at his feet. “Well, yeah…I’ve been avoiding you.”

“No shit.”

“It’s nothing personal—“

“Hah! Right.”

“Look, I wanted to talk to you. I just didn’t enjoy seeing you and Dave together. Alright?”

Graham says nothing, just stares straight ahead, past him.

“I don’t hate you, it’s just that it’s difficult for me to see you two…or whatever. You understand that, right?”

Graham slows his pace and Damon’s heart sinks to his stomach when he turns to him. Graham’s left eye is purpled and bloodshot. His normally pink lips are cut and swollen, dried blood caught inside the slit on his bottom lip.

“Jesus Christ, Graham.”

“Yeah, I know. I got my arse kicked. You don’t have to rub it in.”

“I’m not! I mean, what the fuck? Why didn’t they call the police and have him arrested?”

“Because nobody gives a shit about kids like me.”

“Kids like you?”

“Sissies,” Graham says, without skipping a beat.

“You’re not a sissy. Don’t call yourself that.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I am one. A pansy, a poof.”

“Stop it. You sound like your dad right now.”

“He’s right. All those years of telling me to ‘man up’ and not be soft so I wouldn’t get my arse kicked by other boys, and look at me now.”

“You need to stop. Your dad’s an arsehole, and I hate him. You know that.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t like you much either,” Graham snaps, and Damon flinches.

Graham’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, that was mean. I’m just—“

“It’s alright.”

Damon takes a deep breath. “I’m going to bloody kill him for this.”

“Please don’t.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Damon asks, sounding hurt.

“I told you, I thought you didn’t care.”

“Are you kidding me? Let me see your face,” Damon says, reaching out a motherly hand, but Graham swats him away.

“Don’t.” He pauses.“It’s not just my face. He kicked me in the ribs too.”

Damon’s hands clench into fists. “Fucking wanker, I’m going to kill him! He has no right to do that to you. The police should arrest him!”

“Calm down. He’s suspended.”

“That’s not enough! That’s not justice for a hate crime.”

“You think the school gives a shit?” Graham spits. “Nobody cares.”

“What about your parents?”

“My dad is just pissed off at me, and my mum…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. She’s disappointed, I guess.”

“Why did Dave hit you?”

“It doesn’t matter why. He just did.”

“Gra, you can be honest with me. I won’t judge.”

“Oh, like how you didn’t judge me the last time?”

Damon frowns. “I’m just trying to be your friend right now, Gra.”

Graham stops and stares at him, jaw clenched. “Look, if you want to be my friend, then let’s talk about this at my house before my dad gets home. The last bloody thing I need right now is for someone else at school to see us together.”

*

When they reach Graham’s house, it’s quiet and empty. The old wooden stairs creak and groan as they sneak their way up to Graham’s bedroom and Graham shuts the door behind them. Graham chucks his backpack to the floor and sits down on the edge of his bed.

“Look, my dad’s going to be home soon so you can’t stay very long.”

Damon hesitates, lingering by the doorway.

“You can sit down, you know.”

“It’s alright, I’ve been sitting all day,” Damon lies, before crossing his arms in front of his chest. Graham rolls his eyes and tugs his hoodie off, pulling up the t-shirt underneath and revealing his pale torso. Damon sucks in a breath, glimpsing the angry purple-red bruises on either sides of Graham’s ribs.

“Jesus Christ, Gra.”

“Told you it was more than just my face.” Graham's bruised face stares up at him, defeated. Damon relents, leaving the doorway and taking a seat on the bed next to him.

“Let me see.”

Graham lifts his shirt up to his armpits, and Damon brushes his fingers over black and blue bruises on either side. Graham winces.

“Your hands are freezing.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

“Christ, Gra. You look like you should have gone to the hospital. It looks like he almost broke your ribs.”

“They.”

“They?”

“It wasn’t just Dave. It was a couple of boys who attacked me.”

”What?” Damon shrieks, his voice raising an octave. “Who?”

“Does it matter?” Graham winces and tugs his shirt back down.

“Yes, it matters. Because I’m going to kill them. Who were they? I want to know the names of all of them.”

“Des—“

“What?”

“Don’t. Please. I don’t want to piss them off any more than I already have.”

“I don’t care. No one gets to hurt you like that and get away with it. Jesus. Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I thought you knew! The entire school knew about it! And I thought you were pissed at me.”

“Christ, Graham. I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m your best mate.” Damon bites his tongue. “Why did Dave attack you anyway?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, I want to hear it!”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Gra, he’s a homophobic chav and he needs to go to jail.”

“They. Not just Dave,” Graham corrects, his face draining of color. “And besides, Dave didn’t have a choice.”

“What did you mean he didn’t have a choice? To almost kill you?”

“Just let it go, would you? Please.”

“No, I’m not going to let this go. He hurt you—”

“I don’t want you to do anything!” Graham snaps. “Alright? Please promise me you won’t do anything.”

“…Gra.”

“I’m sorry for yelling at you…it’s just….if you’re my mate, you won’t do anything.”

Graham’s hand grazes the top of his and an electric shock jolts down Damon’s spine. After weeks of being alone and untouched, feeling his friend’s skin against his is like dropping a wire into water.

“Promise me, Des,” he says, leaning in close. Damon’s skin goosebumps. Graham’s breath is hot against his cheek. Their shoulders press together, both of their knees threatening to collide.

“Why did he hurt you? I need to know.”

Graham shakes his head. “I told you already, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“…I know that you love him. I see how you light up when you’re together. When you talk to him—”

Graham’s eyes turn glassy, his mouth pulls up into a scowl.“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He moves to stand, but Damon catches him by the wrist.

“Gra, wait, I’m sorry—“

Suddenly a booming voice overhead makes their spines straighten to attention, and puts goosebumps on the back of their necks. Graham’s father is standing in the doorway, his red eyes set on where Damon’s hand is clutching Graham’s wrist.

“You boys aren’t getting into trouble up here, are you?” He asks, staring at Damon only.

“No, sir,” Damon says, snapping his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove.

Graham’s voice takes on a trembling tenor. “Yeah dad, we’re alright. Thanks.”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Damon gulps as Graham’s father’s eyes drill holes into his forehead.

Graham’s father, Robert, smoked like a train, drank scotch and was easily set off by the most benign of annoyances. He was a military man through and through, with a low tolerance for the undisciplined and the antithesis of Damon’s hippie parents. Even Graham was scared of him. And every time Damon saw him, it made him want to hide underneath the bed. He’d known Graham’s father since he was eleven, and Damon had always feared him.

“Dames came over to help me with my maths homework,” Graham stutters, his cheeks so hot Damon can practically feel it.

“Well, I don’t want to hear any more fighting, you hear me? Graham’s already gotten in enough trouble this week.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Is Damon staying for dinner?”

“Uh…maybe. I don’t know.” Graham shrugs, wringing his hands together.

“Well, let your mum know. She’ll cook an extra pork chop if he is.”

“Yeah. I’ll let you know, dad.”

“Good.” Graham’s father gives Damon one last stern look. “Leave the door open.”

As soon as his father has disappeared down the hallway, Graham exhales audibly. Damon swallows the lump in his throat and lowers his voice to a whisper.

“Does he think we were…?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“The school told him why those boys went after me. I denied everything, but he’s suspected me ever since. He said…” Graham shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No, what?”

“He said that I’d better not be a poof.”

“Oh, Gra.”

“And he doesn’t trust you.”

“I know.”

“He suspects you,” Graham says, shifting his weight on the bed. “He thinks you’re a dangerous influence on me. I told him you’ve got a girlfriend. But he won’t believe me if he sees us like that.“

“Is that all he cares about?” Damon spits. “He doesn’t care that you got hurt, just that you might be gay?“

Graham puts a finger to his lips. “Keep it down, would you? My parents aren’t like yours, Dames. Especially my dad. You keep forgetting that.”

Damon frowns, picking at the tiny threads of the colorful quilt on Graham’s bed with his fingernail. Both boys fall silent, and Damon can hear Graham’s mother clanging pots and pans in the kitchen below them. Without a word, Damon stands up and reaches for Graham’s hand and notices that it’s trembling.

“Gra, it’s going to be okay.”

“Careful. I’m worried he’s going to walk in on us again,” Graham warns, pulling his hand away. “And no, it’s not.”

“He hasn’t seen anything. For all he knows, it’s just a school rumor.”

Graham’s bottom lip quivers, his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. “Dames, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“What?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you…”

“Gra, just tell me.”

“He saw me…and Dave.”

“What do you mean he saw you?”

“I mean, my dad caught me and Dave…fooling around.” Graham lowers his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t want to tell you cause I thought it would upset you. I’m sorry.”

Damon’s chest tightens, those familiar hands wrapping around his throat once again. “I don’t understand,” he stutters, all of his words stuck in the desert of his throat.

“It was one weekend Dave slept over. We were on my bed, and Dave had his hand down my…well, you know… and my dad walked in on us. Des?”

“…”

“Are you okay? Please say something. I’m sorry that I told you. I just needed you to know how much trouble I’m in. My dad threatened to kick me out. I can’t risk anything.”

There’s a stabbing pain in Damon’s chest as he stands up from the bed.

“Fuck.” Graham throws his head into his hands. “Please don’t be mad at me. I don’t have anyone to talk to except for you. You’re my best friend and I just—shit.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I shouldn’t have told you. Now I’ve gone and fucked everything up. Please say something. Dames?”

“What?”

“You not saying anything is making me nervous.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Damon mumbles, his eyes stinging.

“I want you to talk to me. Please. Even if you hate me.”

“Did he fuck you?” The words slip past Damon’s teeth before he can stop them. His stomach churns. “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. I’d rather not have that in my head.”

Graham’s cheeks are shining with dried saline streaks. When he reaches out to touch his shoulder, Damon pulls away. “I’m sorry, Dames. I didn’t want to tell you. I just feel alone right now.”

Damon can’t stand to look at him. Even the sound of Graham’s voice makes him angry. “I don’t understand. Why is Dave hurting you if you’re doing that with him...?”

Graham shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated enough to put you in the hospital?”

“Dames, listen, I just really need your help right now. I need my parents to think that I’m normal.”

Damon bites his tongue so hard he tastes iron.

“‘Normal?’ What the fuck does that mean?”

“You know what it means..”

“No, I don’t. What’s not normal about being gay?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Graham hisses. “Don’t you understand? I’m not allowed to be gay. My parents are not your parents.”

Damon glares at him, wounded.Graham joins him on the bed but gives him distance. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you because I knew how much it would hurt you. I still want to be mates,” Graham mumbles, touching the top of Damon’s hand.

“Dames—“

“I never wanted to be just mates. You know that.” Damon’s fingernail picks at the threads of the quilt again. A quiet rage surges inside his chest. When he glances up again, the light in Graham’s eyes has dimmed.

“I know.”

“I would never, ever hurt you like he did.”

Both boys fall silent, Graham’s hand crawling toward his, eventually their fingers intertwine. A silent understanding. Damon feels Graham’s heart beat in his palm as they listen to the sound of his mother boiling the kettle and chopping up vegetables.

“I hate him,” Damon growls.

“Please don’t start a fight with Dave. I’m begging you.”

“…”

“Damon. Promise me. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

Damon wants to point out how unfair that ask is, wants to pull Graham into his arms, feel that same heartbeat beating against his chest. He glances at the open bedroom door, remembering Graham’s angry father. Then a memory comes to mind, two years ago, their warm, platonic bodies pressed together under linen sheets, Graham sobbing into his pillow. That night was so clear in Damon’s mind, how Graham’s father stood in that same doorway, screaming and calling Graham a failure because he refused to sign up for football. Then after that the fallout, the crying, Graham’s hand reaching out for his underneath the bedsheets on a freezing winter night. The sound of the radiator clanking and puttering on as it warmed up the other side of the room and they huddled together for warmth. Holding hands like that, Graham’s weeping stopped. And right before they fell asleep, Graham’s warm breath touched the back of Damon’s neck.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he begged.

“I won’t.”

As they drifted off to sleep, Damon squeezed his best friend’s hand and whispered into the dark nothingness between them.

“One day I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The magick spells in this chapter are based on the Lesser Key of Solomon and Goetia. I really wanted to take from the magick irl Damon has quite a lot of interest in (Dr. Dee/alchemy), and also (frankly) I feel more comfortable writing to as I have more source material/books to draw actual reference from that I've collected over the years. That said, I include them with respect, and they are not exactly the same because I would not put that in a fic. Anyhow, just wanted to note that.
> 
> Thank you for reading and let me know if you are enjoying this! x

Damon wakes up feeling nauseous. The ghost of his nightmares replay in his head as he showers, makes breakfast, memorizes his lines, and then takes a black cab to the set. They’re almost a week away from wrapping rehearsals, and the last thing he needs is to be sick and delay a production already plagued by delays. On his walk to the set, a woman outside recognizes him and asks for his autograph. He obliges her, stomach still churning from last night’s indigestion, and pops an antacid as soon as he gets to the dressing room.

The hot and muggy afternoon drags on as long as possible. He’s not keen on making this film, for a lot of reasons, but one is because he went to bed with one of the other actors a few weeks ago - a beautiful, busty brunette woman named Sam. He’d never called her back after their single evening together, and ever since she’d hated him.

In his defense, not that he wasn’t interested in her—after all, she was a gorgeous woman—but he hadn’t been totally honest about not being the ‘settle down and date’ sort of bloke. He was more prone to urges and relieving them without strings attached, which had made sleeping with some people more complicated when they expected something with more longevity. Anyway, he’d learned his lesson the hard way: that mixing work and pleasure wasn’t a good idea. And now that there was a hangover from last night in the mix, all he wanted was to finish his lines and piss off as soon as possible.

After production wraps, a few of the crew members and the director invite him out for drinks at the pub. He stays for an hour, nursing on a hair of the dog before sneaking out to catch a cab back to the bar where he’d met Graham the night before. He’d been unable to shake the thought of him all day. It was as constant as his nausea, that itch that somehow they’d met before. What was it that made the sex more intimate, their connection was so strong? He couldn’t shake the mental image of Graham, nor the feeling of his body underneath his hands, the way it felt almost natural, the way they moved together. Damon shook his head. He was getting soppy, and he knew it. Sentimentality was a surefire way to get hurt, but it was so rare for him these days it took him off guard. Most gay men and women he’d meet would throw themselves at him. Being famous had made every relationship easier but shallower at the same time. It was that mentality that haunted his last serious relationship, his high rise to fame having gutted the emotional backbone out of it; namely, he’d become comfortable being shallow.

Around thirty minutes in, Damon spots Graham at the bar. His dark hair cropped messily but tight over his forehead, he’s smiling wide underneath his thick black specs. He’s accompanied by his tall, skinny friend again, the one with the floppy fringe and cheekbones that would make Bowie blush. Damon knows he’ll look desperate if he pounces too quickly, so instead he waits for Graham to make first eye contact. But after a drink or two, he gets more and more jealous of Graham’s dark, lanky friend - the way he looks like he could be a model. For a few inebriated minutes Damon entertains the idea of trying to pick him up just to make Graham jealous.

Throwing back his third shot of vodka, Damon spots Graham’s friend walking toward the loo and follows him in. He slides into the urinal next to him, sidling in a bit too close to make his presence known. At first he ignores him, but when Damon makes the faux pas glance over the urinal at him, Alex clears his throat.

“Don’t I know you?” The tall brunette says.

“Hmm?”

“I recognize you. You went home with my friend the other night. Graham?”

“Oh, right.”

He smiles tightly. “I’m Alex.”

“Damon. Pleasure.”

“Yeah, I know,” Alex chuckles. “He told me all about you.”

“Oh.”

“You know it’s a bit rude to stare at another man’s dick while he’s taking a piss, don’t you?”

“Last time we checked, we’re at a gay club, aren’t we?”

“Real cheeky of you to pick me up after seeing my friend the other night, don’t you think?”

Damon arches a brow. “What, did you think I was trying to pick you up?”

Alex smirks, zipping up his fly. “You’re exactly like he described you.”

“And how’s that?”

“Gigantic head and hung like a baby elephant.”

“Ha!”

“So, you do this with all the men you meet in the loo?”

“Only the good-looking ones.”

Alex laughs and moves to the sink. “I guess I’ll forgive your cheekiness, given that you were a gentleman to my friend the other night. Graham doesn’t always get the best suitors.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s a bit shy, awkward, you know.”

“Yeah, I caught that.”

“He liked you a lot.”

“That so?”

“Well, he wouldn’t stop talking about you all day today. Now that I’ve got a good look at you, I suppose I can understand why.”

“He didn’t strike me as the crush type.”

“Well, he’s not. Not usually.”

“Anyway, I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

“Ta.” Alex smiles. “I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.”

Damon laughs. “No mincing words with you, is there?”

“Nope.”

“What I was going to ask is if you could give me Graham’s number?”

“He didn’t give it to you?”

“Nope.”

“Then why do you want it?”

“That’s my business.”

“Yeah, well, my business is protecting my friend, so. You need to give me a good reason to let you bother him.”

“I’d like to see him again.”

“Why don’t you go ask him yourself?”

Suddenly the door to the bathroom swings open and a panicked-looking Graham rushes in. He stares at Alex with a blanched look on his face. “You alright, Alex? You were taking forever, I got worried.”

“Yeah, I was just getting to know your friend here.”

“Friend?” Graham arches an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s you.”

“It’s Damon,” Damon says, then quickly adds, “In case you forgot.”

Graham's cheeks get hot. “No, I remember.”

“Well, I’ll be getting on. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

Graham opens his mouth to protest but stops, nodding at Alex as he exits the restroom. His dark eyes flit to Damon.

“Hello again.”

“Hello.”

Graham narrows his eyes. “You weren’t hitting on my friend, were you?”

“Oh, no. Definitely not. I was just asking him for your number.”

“Is that so?”

“You never gave it to me.”

“Well, I didn’t think that you were a number taking sort of bloke.”

“I didn’t either, but here we are.”

Graham lets out an awkward laugh. “You’re something, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You were trying to hit on my friend.”

“I was not.” Damon shakes his head, looking sheepish. “Honest.”

“So you just start conversations with men in the loo, is that it?”

Damon shrugs, then smiles before fussing with his blonde fringe. “Alex told me you were talking about me.”

“Oh, yeah? That bastard, he’s got a big mouth on him.”

“Yeah.” A smile splits across Damon’s face. “Gigantic head. Baby elephant?”

“Oh god. I’ll kill him.”

Damon grins toothily. “It’s alright. I’d really like to see you again, if you’re keen on it, that is.”

Graham laughs, then shakes his head. “You’re confusing. One minute you’re hitting on myfriend, next you’re asking for a date with me.”

“I really wasn’t trying to pick up your friend,” Damon says, leaning over the hand dryer and smiling like a cheshire cat. “To be honest, it embarrassed me to have to go up to you and ask because I was too drunk to ask for your number the other night.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I’m flattered,” Graham mumbles. “But I don’t do relationships right now.”

“Perfect. I don’t either. Want to come over to my place again?”

“You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

“Nah.” Damon shakes his head. “Not very well.”

“You know, I had other plans for tonight.”

“Ah, don’t make me beg,” Damon pleads, closing some space between them.

“I’d love to see you beg, actually.”

“Ha!”

“But really, I can’t. I shouldn’t ditch Alex again like I did the other night.”

“Surely he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.”

Graham shakes his head. “I can’t leave him. He got very upset with me for disappearing with you.”

“Then both of you can come over.”

“I knew it, you were trying to get with my friend.”

“No, I’m just saying if he has to come along I’m not opposed. He’s very protective of you, it seems like.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because he’s my ex.”

Damon's eyes widen. “Well, then.”

“Is that a problem?”

Damon shrugs. “You said ex, right? So, no.”

“Right. Well, I’ll see if I can talk him into it.”

*

An hour later, all three men are sitting in the living room of Damon’s posh flat, nursing their respective gin and tonics and listening to Damon wax on about his favorite records while Graham argues with him about quintessential albums from the seventies. Mostly about The Beatles best albums, but Damon can’t be arsed to disagree with him because he’s too cute, drunk and ranting on his expensive red couch with Alex’s arm draped around his neck.

“So, how did you two meet?”

“What do you mean?”

“Graham told me that you both used to date.”

“Oh.” Alex laughs. “Well. In college.”

“What happened to the both of you?”

“Ah.” Alex lifts his glass, as if to make a toast. “Growing up. Life.”

“Alex decided that he was a _bisexual_ ,” Graham pipes up, slurring the last few syllables. “He found women.”

“Oh, you sound so bitter,” Alex teases.

“Well, you did. Once you had a taste of women, you had no interest in me anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

Damon hides his smirk behind the lip of his glass. “What’s wrong with being bisexual?”

“Nothing. Except that you have to be jealous of everyone,” Graham says, very matter-of-factly.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I am also a bisexual.” Damon grins, raising his glass to the both of them.

“Bah!” Graham cries, shaking his head. “Life’s cruel like that.”

Alex stares at Damon, sizing him up with a devious twinkle in his eye. “Do you really think a man who looks like him would reserve himself for only one gender, Gra?”

“Well, it’s just my luck, to be honest,” Graham groans, taking another sip from his drink. “I have to compete for all the beautiful bisexual men with other women _and_ men.”

“Bollocks. You don’t have to compete with anyone, Gra.”

“Stop it. I’m a potato.”

“No, you aren’t,” Alex tuts.

“Alex is right,” Damon chimes in.

“Bollocks to both of you. I know where I stand in the grand scheme of the universe.”

“And where is that, Gra?”

Graham sighs, takes a sip of his drink. “I don’t want to say.”

Suddenly Alex’s phone lights up.

“Who is it?” Graham hiccups, staring over Alex’s shoulder.

“Ah,” he sighs. “Girlfriend. She wants me home. I’d better get going.”

Damon’s heart somersaults. Finally. Some time alone with Graham. Alex stands up from the couch and gives Graham a big hug before addressing Damon. He extends his hand out and squeezes Damon’s hand hard enough to get his point across. Alex then looks him straight in the eye, two alpha males staring each other down.

“Cheers, Damon. Thanks for the drink—” Alex points to Graham. “And make sure he gets home safe and sound, yeah?”

As soon as Alex has disappeared out the door into the chilly night, Damon sets down his drink and crosses the room to change the vinyl record. He then gravitates to Graham, relieving him from his drink and prompting a drunk giggle from him before wrapping his arms around his waist. Graham lifts his chin as the first few notes of the song play from the speakers.

“I know this one,” Graham says, failing to hide his grin.

“You do?”

“Of course I do!I remember it from when I was a kid. Wossitcalled…” He snaps his fingers, brows pinched together as he thinks. Finally, his eyes light up. “Witchita Lineman.”

“Excellent memory.”

“I remember listening to it with my best friend in secondary school. It’s a pleasant tune,” Graham mumbles, listening intently to Glen Campbell’s crooning. “Nostalgic, for simpler times…”

Damon brushes back a stray piece of Graham’s hair and Graham looks back to notice Damon staring back at him with those big blue-gray eyes, the corners of his pink lips upturned ever-so-slightly, as if he’s just heard an amusing joke.

Graham blushes. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No.” Damon grips him just a smidge tighter than before, his expensive-but-tasteful cologne mixing with the musk of his skin, and them, each other, pressed together.

“I hope I’m not coming on too strong,” Damon says, with a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

“You were coming on strong hours ago.” Graham laughs, then stumbles backward as his world spins. Damon catches him just in time, pulling him to his feet but loosening his grip.

“Sorry,” Graham apologizes. “I’m a bit pissed. And that joke sounded meaner than I thought it would.”

“It’s alright.”

“I’m enjoying myself a lot right now, actually.” Graham motions around him. “In your very, very posh apartment.”

Damon squeezes his hand before letting go of him. “Good. I’m glad. Do you want another drink?”

Graham nods and follows Damon into the kitchen. He stares at the back of him, admiring the exposed sliver of Damon’s skin from the lift of his t-shirt as he stretches to reach the bottle of grenadine on the top shelf.

“I’m sorry if Alex being here with us tonight was weird. I know he can be over-the-top sometimes, but he means well, really. He just doesn’t want me getting hurt.”

“No need to apologize,” Damon says, smiling over his shoulder. “Though I will say that’s the first time I’ve ever had a date with someone’s ex before.”

“God, when you put it like that it sounds awful.”

“So, is Alex the reason you decided you don’t want to be in a relationship with anyone?”

“Well, that’s a very personal question.”

Damon hands him his drink, then puts his own to his smirking lips. “Well, you don’t have to answer.”

Graham lets out a deep sigh. “No, it’s more like…I’d just rather be alone, you know?”

“Sort of.”

“It’s just easier being on your own. Your own flat. Your own drama, not someone else’s. I prefer not having a lot of drama. And anyway, I haven’t found someone I’ve liked enough to be in a relationship.”

“Hmm. Aside from Alex?”

“Not just Alex. I’ve had two boyfriends.”

“Wow.”

“Don’t judge. That’s only relationships I’m talking about.”

“Not judging. Alex told me you’ve had some bad dates.”

“I suppose that’s true. Though I’m convinced that’s just the type I attract.” Graham’s eyes flick upward. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“So, why did you want my phone number? I thought it was pretty clear that we wouldn’t see each other again.”

“To be honest, I thought it was an enjoyable night. Nicer than most of the nights I have, anyway. Thought it might be fun to do it again.”

Graham smirks. “You mean like, have sex?”

Damon shrugs, then smiles. “Something like that, sure. But no pressure.”

“I suppose I’m asking because I’m still wondering what your intention is.”

“Nothing. Just enjoying your company again.”

“Ha! I believe that about as much as you saying that you weren’t hitting on Alex in the loo.” He pauses. “Anyway, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I enjoyed the other night too. It was a pleasant change of pace.”

Graham sinks down onto the sofa behind him, still sipping at his drink. “I’m a bit pissed, by the way. So if I say or do something stupid, that’s why.”

“It’s alright. You getting pissed is my fault. I make my drinks strong.” Damon props his elbow behind his head, his gaze intent on Graham.

“You are ridiculously good-looking. I sort of hate you for it. Didn’t you say you were an actor or something? Wait. You were in that one film, what was it called? God, it came out in ‘97.”

Damon sinks back into the sofa, amused at watching the gears turn in Graham’s head.

“Face! That was it. You were in the movie Face. With Robert Carlyle and Lena Headley.”

Damon laughs. “That’s the one you remember, out of all of them? Face?”

“Well, what other ones were you in?” Graham asks, exasperated.

“Snatch. Ravenous. Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels?”

“No shit! Guy Ritchie! You’re famous! No wonder your head is so big.”

Damon laughs.

“I’m just surprised I didn’t recognize you earlier.”

“Well, we were both pissed. And besides, I sort of appreciated that you didn’t recognize me.”

“Why’s that?”

“People act differently around me when they know. I appreciate when people get to know me outside of the whole fame thing. It’s a pleasant change of pace.”

Graham sips on his drink, his cheeks tinged red as they fall into an awkward silence. “I just realized,” Damon says. “I didn’t ask you if I could touch you earlier. I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s alright. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the celebrity thing. Sometimes I’m a bit daft and stupid things come out of my mouth.”

Damon smiles. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable, it’s alright.”

“Oh, good. Cause I’m freaking out a bit now, knowing who you are.”

“Really?” Damon beams.

“Yeah, suddenly the posh flat makes a lot more sense. What? Why are you laughing at me?”

“I think I just miss when you didn’t know who I was.”

Graham averts his eyes. “Oh, well…”

“Would you mind if I kiss you now?”

Graham’s cheeks flush bright pink. He mumbles, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Damon’s hands are gentle as they wrap around the back of Graham’s neck, thumbs cradling his jaw as he leans in for a kiss. Graham tastes just as boozy as him, perhaps more, the sweet taste of gin on his tongue as it slips between his lips. Graham shifts his body to allow him to lean deeper into the kiss, and the glass of gin held between his legs slips and spills all over his trousers.

Graham curses and jumps up from the couch, examining the giant wet splotch of gin staining the front of his gray trousers.

“Shit! I’m really sorry. I got it all over your sofa too.”

“Don’t apologize! The sofa is fine,” Damon reassures him, already halfway to the kitchen to fetch a towel.

Graham mumbles another apology as Damon mops up what’s left of his drink on the sofa.

“How’s your trousers?”

“Completely mucked, I’m afraid.” Graham sighs.

“Well, we can wash ‘em. Give ‘em here.”

Graham blushes hot again, reaching for the fly on his trousers. “I’m really sorry about your couch.”

“I’ve done the same two or three hundred times, so don’t sweat it. It’s not a big deal,” Damon says, giving him that signature toothy grin again. “What?”

“Nothing, It’s just…”

“You don’t want to take your trousers off in front of me?”

Graham turns a deeper shade of red. “God. Well, I’m a little…you know. After the kissing. Down there.”

“You’re worried about me seeing that you’ve pitched a tent after feeling you up on my sofa? You’re adorable, you know that?” Damon plants a kiss on his lips, grinning. “Here, I’ll help you get them off.”

Graham turns red, albeit enjoying Damon’s deft hands unbuttoning and tugging his trousers down to his ankles. He kicks them the rest way off, and Damon takes them and disappears to somewhere in his flat before returning minutes later with a fresh pair.

“I don’t know if these will fit you, but… I think we’re almost the same size.”

“Thanks,” Graham mumbles, holding them over the front of his boxers.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m just embarrassed that I killed the moment.”

“Don’t be. Happens to everyone.”

“Um.” Graham chews on his bottom lip before motioning toward the doorway. “I don’t know if I should—“

“Oh. Did you need to go?”

“Not really. I just wasn’t sure if the trousers were your way of saying—”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I’d love for you to stay.” He grins. “I mean, if you want to continue where we left off.”

Graham nods heartily, and Damon closes the space between them. After some amount of awkward chuckling, Damon cradles Graham’s head with both of his hands and kisses him a bit more urgently than before. After about a minute of necking, Graham’s fingers fumble blindly with the button on Damon’s trousers. Damon’s mouth travels from his lips to his neck, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin, and it’s not long before Damon’s freed trousers are shucked off to the side in favor of nuzzling Graham backward onto the sofa. As soon as Graham’s bottom hits the cushion, Damon swings his legs over, mounting Graham’s lap and deepening their kiss while curious hands navigate blindly underneath his shirt. Then there’s the naughty squeeze of a nipple and a hitching in Graham’s breath as Damon’s hands get closer and closer to his navel.

Blue eyes, illuminated with flecks of green, flick upward, begging for permission. “May I?”

Graham nods, groaning as Damon’s warm hand snakes down and wraps around him. Soon, Damon’s tugging on Graham’s boxers and pulling them down around his ankles, leaving kisses and gentle nips on the tops of his thighs as he kneels in front of him. Graham nearly gasps when Damon’s lips first expertly wrap around him, enveloping him in that wonderful, hot wetness. He tilts his head back, fingers threading into his golden-blonde hair as blue eyes set steadfastly on his gaze. Just the visual of such a beautiful boy sucking his cock is almost a bit too much for him, and so he bites down hard on his tongue, focusing on the pain to keep from coming too soon.

Damon’s hand wraps tightly around his base, pink tongue flicking over the velvety head, licking at the salty pre-cum before wrapping his lips around his teeth and taking him deep into his throat. He’s good at this—too good, Graham thinks to himself. And it would be unfair, after the other night and how hard he’d come, for to Damon to make him orgasm before even fucking him. He tugs at Damon’s hair, urging him back up to his lips and into his arms.

“I don’t want to come. Not yet,” Graham whispers, and Damon’s mouth smiles against his.

“Of course not,” he hums, pulling Graham to his feet and guiding him toward the bedroom.

**

Everyone at school was talking about it.

“Did you hear about what happened to Dave?” Students were chattering about it in the hallway. Dave had just returned from suspension a few days ago and had a nasty turn of luck—falling down two flights of stairs and breaking both of his ankles. Some students whispered that it was instant karma. Others said that someone must’ve pushed him. Either way, Dave had slipped, twisting his ankle and landing at the bottom of two flights of stairs in a crumple of skin and bones. His accident devastated the school football team; they’d lost their best player for the rest of the year.

Damon, however? He couldn’t stop grinning. And Graham? He couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah, it’s horrible, but I mean, he sort of got what he deserved,” Damon says, standing behind Graham at his locker.

“No one deserves to fall down a flight of stairs, Damon.”

“Two flights of stairs,” Damon corrects. “And no, homophobes do.”

Graham scowls. “You just hate him. Knowing you, I bet you wished it on him and that’s why you’re so happy right now.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? He hurt you.”

“I told you, it’s more complicated than that,” Graham mumbles, pulling his books out of his locker.

Damon frowns. “You still have feelings for him, even after all that he did to you?”

“I never said such a thing.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Dames, come on.”

“What? I just thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy? Why? Because Dave is in the hospital? He didn’t deserve to fall down a flight of stairs.”

“I don’t understand what you see in him, Gra. He’s not a good person.”

Graham stops, his mouth twisted up. “You don’t know Dave. He’s not who you think he is.”

“You’re right. All I know is that you keep defending someone who beat you within an inch of your life.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Graham snaps, slamming his locker shut. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Fine.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you, I’m just—”

“It’s fine.” Damon waves his hand. “Did you do your maths homework yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Do you want to go over to your house for dinner and we can do it together?”

“Yeah, sure. I don’t think my mum will mind.”

Later that night, the boys sprawl out on Graham’s bedroom floor, their textbooks spread open as they pore over their maths homework. Damon gnaws at the eraser end of his pencil and Graham gets up to flip over the Madness record they’re playing on his tiny speakers.

“You should put on The Specials.”

“Yeah? I was thinking The Kinks.”

“Kinks are good too.” Graham nods, switching the records out and placing the Madness record back in its sleeve. As the record plays, Damon sings along and when Waterloo Sunset comes on, Graham glances up from his paper.

“You should sing more. You’ve got a good voice.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do, you cocky bastard. I was trying to give you a compliment…not that you need any.”

“No, I just meant that I know I’m very special,” Damon retorts, grinning with all his teeth. “I know I’ve got big things in my future.”

“Next thing I know you’re going to tell me that one day you’re going to sing with Ray Davies.”

“I will.”

Graham laughs, then scoffs. “Well, I hope you’re better at singing than you are at maths.”

“I’m sure Ray Davies was shit at math,” Damon mumbles, sucking on the end of his eraser. “How’s your dad been, by the way? About you know…stuff?”

“He’s been alright. It helps that you and I have been hanging out…being normal. And that Dave’s not around anymore.”

Damon pinches his eyebrows together. “What do you mean, normal?”

“You know what I meant, Dames. Like, being friends.”

Damon’s eyes flicked upward. “You mean like not being poofs.”

“I don’t like that word. It’s offensive.”

“I don’t like you saying that I’m not normal.”

“Jesus Christ, Dames. You know what I meant. And you know that I don’t judge you for that.” Graham shakes his head. “And besides, the more I think about it, the more I think it was just a phase for me.”

“A phase?”

“Yeah, like, I was just curious and I don’t know. I don’t think it’s for me.”

“What, kissing blokes?”

Graham shrugs, then goes quiet.

“You know, Cindy called me the other day. We were on the phone for two hours.”

“Yeah?”

“She said she thinks I’m cute.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Yeah…I mean, I kind of like her, but I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s my type, you know?”

Damon shrugs. “Yeah.”

“It’s like…sometimes when someone’s really into you, it can be kind of a turn off. You know what I mean?”

“I guess. What do you mean by ‘a phase’ by the way?”

Graham doesn’t answer him at first, his pencil scribbling filling the quiet space between them.

“I meant that I don’t think that I’m bisexual…or whatever. I mean, I thought that maybe I was, but now I don’t know.”

“How so?”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Des.”

“Sorry. Just curious.” Another minute of silence passes before Graham clears his throat.

“I guess it’s just like…some blokes can be attractive, you know? Like Bowie, but it doesn’t mean I’m into them in that way.”

“Do blokes turn you on though?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you would know,” Damon smirks, and Graham turns a deep shade of red.

“If this is about that day that you and I…you know…that’s not fair cause you surprised me.”

“Both times?” Damon teases, and Graham scowls. “Sorry.”

“I mean, no one’s touched me that way before except for you and Dave, and I don’t know, it just felt…weird.“

“Weird, how?”

“Dames,” Graham warns.

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, you seem to like it.”

“Thinking about blokes? Sometimes, yeah. I think about girls too.”

“What do you think about with blokes?”

“Well…what feels good for them is what feels good for me, and that’s a big turn on, I suppose. It’s not that way with girls.”

“Yeah, cause girls are soft and nice…boys are just scary.”

Damon cracks a toothy grin. “I’m scary?”

“Yeah, you’re scary. Terrifying,” Graham mumbles, hiding the smile on his face. “Anyway, what do you find attractive about a bloke?”

“Beyond the obvious?”

Graham turns a deeper shade of burgundy. “I mean beyond anatomy.”

“Smell,” Damon answers, and Graham screws up his face.

“Not like an unpleasant smell. I mean, just how boys smell. Pheromones, maybe. It’s difficult to explain.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And how they feel when you kiss them…”

“Huh.” Graham gives a nervous laugh.

“I love how blokes kiss too. It’s not like girls, it’s like…adamant. Desperate. Needy.” Damon inches closer until both of their knees are touching.

Graham lowers his chin, avoiding Damon’s gaze. “And I love watching boys get turned on in front of me.”

“I’m sure that’s easy for you,” Graham mumbles, hiding behind his hair. The hitching in his breath betrays him as he stares down at maths textbook. Damon’s hand snakes toward him, and goosebumps form on the back of Graham’s neck. Damon looks up, black eyes staring back at him like full moons.

“Anyway,” Graham says, shifting away from him.

Damon’s heart plummets to the pit of his stomach. Graham must notice the pained look on Damon’s face because he immediately backtracks. “I’m not judging you. Honest…I just think I only like girls. Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Damon mumbles.

“No really, what’s wrong?”

“You didn’t like any of it? At all?”

Graham stares back at him, moon-faced. “I’m sorry, Dames. I don’t know what to say.”

Damon prods at the carpet beneath him, too afraid to meet Graham’s gaze.

“Listen, I’m just glad that it didn’t happen with you cause we can still be friends, you know? My parents are alright with us hanging out and all. I can’t see Dave anymore.”

“Yeah, makes sense…”

“Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” Damon lies. Graham chews on the back of his pencil, then changes the subject.

“Right. Well, do you know the answer to number 24?”

**

Damon spends the rest of the day in bed, curled up underneath his sheets and staring out at the cold gray English sky outside his window. He was a complete idiot thinking that once Dave was out of the picture, Graham would take an interest in him. He’d fucked up not once, but three times now, and made a complete arse of himself in front of Graham.

 _It never would have happened anyway,_ he convinces himself. _I never even had a chance._

Still, the wound hurts, ripped open so soon again after barely healing from before. Graham would never like him back, and that was fine, right? There would be plenty of others who’d appreciate his advances, his admiration. But none of them would be Graham.

In the early morning, just as the sun is peeking over the horizon and his mind is still buzzing and electric, he gets out of bed and goes out to the garden to sit. On the way there, he passes through the studio and his mum’s spell book on the shelf catches his eye. The light from the glass roof above seems to shine down upon it, mysterious. He pauses, staring up at the blue daybreak sky and allowing the remaining stars above to envelop him. Then he closes his eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing, and when he opens his eyes again, he finds a sort of calm steadiness has come over him.

His mind turns to the book again, pulling it from its place on the shelf and smoothing his hand over the aged leather cover. He cracks open the grimoire, squinting to read its pages in the low light, marveling at how each black sigil seemed to jump off the page when the light hits it. He flips to the page he remembers, the love-binding spell, and sigil for the demon he needed to invoke. Asmodeus. He mouths the name first, then reads the description quietly to himself. The god of lust. Strong, powerful, and appears with three heads; the first is like a bull, the second like a man, and the third like a ram; the tail of a serpent, and from his mouth issue flames of fire.

Part of him wants to laugh at himself for even thinking about it, really, conjuring a demon? He knows that he has to be mad to believe it, but a sad part of him is desperate enough to want it to work. After all, hadn’t what happened to Dave been real? Sure he might have said the words, drawn the sigil and wished it, but that didn’t mean his hex had actually made Dave fall down that flight of stairs, right? Or did it?

A sudden draft blows past him, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. In the darkness, everything appears to be larger, cast in shadows. The tall bookshelves seem to close in around him, suffocating him with their dusty shelves filled with books and skulls and weird trinkets from around the world.

A bird from the garden caws, causing a chill to run down his spine. Maybe Dave _had_ fallen down the stairs because of him. I mean, what other plausible explanation was there? Coincidence? After all, he’d wished for it. He’d said the words and drawn the spell. And maybe his mum was right that this sort of magick is powerful and shouldn’t be tampered with. But if the first hex worked, then perhaps…

Damon shuffles through the papers on the table, pulling a fresh sheet of paper out and laying it over the top of the book page so he can see the sigil through the paper underneath. Then he grabs a pencil and hesitates, gnawing at the end of the eraser. He could just draw the sigil and not say the words, right? It’s not like anything bad would happen if he didn’t say the words. It’s then that he hears the stirring of someone in the kitchen, likely his mum, and panicking he grabs the book and his bike and escapes through the back of the garden.

Knowing that he’s got about an hour before his mother wakes him up for breakfast, Damon cycles as fast as he can to the open field of trees and wood about a mile or so from his house, known as Fiddler’s Wood. By the time he reaches it, he’s completely out of breath, chucking his bike into the bush and carrying his mother’s grimoire underneath his shoulder.

He finds a place removed just enough from the view of the road, and setting the book down open to the correct page, fishes his pocketknife out of his trousers and begins carving into one of the trees.

Time passes slowly as Damon spends the next few minutes referencing the circular sigil with the letters A M O D A Y surrounding a pattern of crosses, sweeping lines, and Roman numeral II stacked on its side where the two sweeping lines connect. The spell instructs him to take Asmodeus’ sigil and place it beside a six-pointed star inside a circle. He carves the star out above, and stepping back, inspects his work.

The spell instructs him to focus for several minutes on the image of Graham in his head, then to read the Latin posy which he does his best to pronounce. The words sound awkward and strained as they leave his mouth. _Hoc west denim os de osseous meis et caro de carne mea, et erunt duo in carne una._

Underneath the Latin is a translation, and he says these words out loud too, for good measure. “This is now bones of my bones, and flesh of my flesh…And they shall be one flesh.”

Once done inciting the words, he sits in quiet repose, waiting for something to happen within the emptiness of the wilderness. He shivers, listening to the soft caws coming from the bird in a tree nearby. Then, out of nowhere, something touches his leg and he nearly jumps up in the air and screams. He peers down to see a black and white stray cat curled around his legs, purring as he rubs himself against his ankles.

“Jesus,” Damon hisses. “You scared the shit out of me.” It’s then that he recognizes how silly all of this is, that he’s spent the last hour attempting to conjure a demon and succeeded only in summoning a cat and a few lost hours of sleep. He chuckles and rubs the top of the cat’s head as it nuzzles his ankles.

“Well, that was underwhelming, wasn’t it kitty? Should I call you Asmodeus? Cat demon of the underworld, furry and terrifying?” He smiles and closes the book, grateful for the break in seriousness. Feeling a heavy exhaustion come over him, he takes one last look at his carvings in the tree before pulling his bike out of the bush and making his way back home.


End file.
